]]>O ur first grandchild was born this past winter, so my wife and I did the only sensible thing we could and bought the house next door to her. It came with eight acres of land which was more land than I wanted to own, but one loses all perspective where grandchildren are concerned. The property includes a pole barn, five apple trees, two persimmon trees, and four stone columns in need of repair, which I need to do soon before a stone dislodges and conks my granddaughter on the noodle. I had no idea the birth of a grandchild would lead to masonry, but there you have it.

We gave a good chunk of the land to my son, the father of said grandchild, who, thinking we were doing him a favor, was profoundly grateful. Gifts of land are always welcomed in the winter, but come summer grass needs mowing, which can test our gratitude. My son is no fan of cutting grass and might be tempted to return that present. His daughter is only three months old, but he’s already grooming her to mow.

For many years my wife and I rented a place to live, then somehow ended up owning three houses and nearly 100 acres of land. I feel the way old kings must have felt, and sometimes wish I had a peasant or two to help me out.

The bulk of our acreage is turned over to cows that wander the pastures and woodlots, dining al fresco. Of the 100 acres, I keep five of them mowed. A boy down the road mows when I can’t, but that’s hardly a break since overseeing a boy is as much work as mowing.
My son and I are alike in many ways, except when it comes to mowing. I enjoy it, if only for its prompt gratification. My other paydays lie down the road — the book that takes two years to see the light of day, the Sunday sermon that hits home five years after its delivery. But when I mow, the fruit of my labor is immediately savored. The clipped rows follow in my wake; the scent of cut grass transports me to childhood. Nothing smells like it used to except fresh-mown grass.

Everything else has changed on the grass front. When I was growing up, cutting the grass was a kid’s job. Fathers only mowed until their sons were old enough to assume the job, usually around 9 or 10. But my generation of fathers has ruined things for boys by doing the mowing ourselves. A neatly trimmed lawn has become more important than a carefully formed boy. Plus, there is a fear to mowing today that wasn’t present when I was a kid. Mowers now come festooned with warnings cautioning the user against sticking their hands and feet under the mower deck while the blades are spinning. Have we gotten so stupid we need to warn one another not to do that? When I was a boy, if you got your foot lopped off by a lawn mower, your father told you to walk it off. He maybe even cuffed you upside the head and told you not to be an idiot. The last thing he would have done is take over the mowing. I could have severed both my legs above the knees and my dad would have said, “That grass isn’t going to cut itself. Better get busy.”

I’m using the words father and boy on purpose, since mothers and girls never mowed when I was a kid. Occasionally, one might see a farm wife mowing the yard, but even that was rare. My sister is 59 and has never, not once, mowed a single strip of grass. I’m all for equal rights and equal pay and would happily throw out all the men in public office and replace them with women, but I draw the line at women cutting grass. I know plenty of women mow grass nowadays, but it seems wrong, like women playing football. Having said that, I’ll probably change my mind when I’m too old to mow and my granddaughter offers to cut my grass.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/06/30/humor/lighter-side/mow-town.html/feed1The Camporeehttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/06/02/humor/lighter-side/the-camporee.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/06/02/humor/lighter-side/the-camporee.html#commentsTue, 02 Jun 2015 17:19:38 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=109480A Boy Scout troop from a rural mountain community is invited to a Camporee, where their "hicks from the sticks" reputation precedes them.

We were called a Boy Scout troop, but actually we were just a rag-tag group of backwoods boys who lived near Mt. Hood, Oregon. In the late 1940s our Scoutmaster, Rueben, presided over this motley bunch of eight to 12 mountain kids who came to Scout meetings when they could, but would always show up for a hike or camping event. Like most 10- to 12-year-old boys we wanted to be in the forest, not in meetings.

Rueben was a carpenter by trade and had distinguished himself in the community by building his own snug house and having shot a mountain lion while deer hunting. The mountain lion’s hide rested on the back of his sofa and added to his certification as a real mountaineer. He also had two boys of scouting age, which may have been some motivation to shepherd the troop, but in reality Rueben liked to hike and camp as much as we did and he loved to teach mountaineering skills.

The community was a string of little settlements stretching along the highway from Marmot to Government Camp. Everybody was, by today’s standards, poor. Some more so than others, but the line between us was so blurred that it didn’t make much difference. Homes were often constructed of logs, like the one my brother and I lived in, or were, in some cases, uninsulated summer cabins in various states of disrepair. The focus for everyone was finding a way to eke out a living in this beautiful mountain setting. Some commuted to work in the bigger towns like Sandy or Gresham, others made their living by logging or milling lumber and some were subsistence-farmer-hunter-gatherers who during summers provided some type of service to the city folk who came to recreate among us “quaint folk.” The summer kids from the city generally regarded mountain kids as a bunch of “hicks from the sticks.” Which, in fact, we were, but we reveled in our backwardness and enjoyed our own brand of fun.

One evening the monthly Scout meeting was about to get underway in our community hall, a small uninsulated building with a woodshed that was nearly as large as the hall itself. We were all gathered around the sheet metal stove, drawing on what warmth there was and looking up at our hero, Scoutmaster Rueben. “Well,” said Rueben, “the Scout Council in Portland wants to have a Camporee this spring up behind the mule barn at the ZigZag Ranger Station, and they have invited us to participate.” Almost in unison we responded with “What is a Camporee?”

“A Camporee,” Rueben explained, “is a time when Scout troops get together and camp and have contests using the skills they have learned. There will be several Portland troops coming, and we all will be judged by some of the Scoutmasters and Forest Rangers from the ZigZag station.”

“What kinds of contests?” we responded.

“I think there will be contests for knot tying, fire building, knowledge of the Scout Manual, and that sort of thing,” Rueben replied. We looked at each other and smiled. It sounded like fun, but we knew what the Portland kids said about us.

The weekend for the Camporee arrived that spring, and after work on Friday, Rueben picked us up in his old 1940 Nash, which had somehow made it through the war years. Each boy had his bedroll and the things we took on hikes but not much more. We went up to the mule barn, which surprisingly we had never visited before. I guess we thought it was too “urban,” being behind the Ranger Station and all.

Shortly after we got there, the first of the city Scouts began to arrive. They all had on uniforms! I mean the full uniform, with the cap, shirt, pants, neckerchief, shoes, and badges — the whole works. More kept arriving and all were in full uniform, neatly pressed and shoes shined. They even had flagpoles with all kinds of banners on them. Now, we had seen drawings in the Scout Manual so we knew Scout uniforms and banners existed, but we couldn’t help staring. After a while we noticed they were staring back at us and slyly smirking their “hicks” smirk.

The Scout leader in charge of the Camporee drew us all together and explained that we should spread out and select a place to camp. We were off like rabbits and soon our troop had found an area under a couple of big cedars with some exposure to the morning sun if that should occur. We started pitching our tarps to form a lean-to tent and began to build a ring of rocks for our campfire. We fully expected it would rain — this was Oregon you know — so we planned for that in the way we laid out our campsite. About then we got word that judging of the first contest would begin.

It was a uniform contest! We bravely lined up at our tent site and stood as straight as we could. Rueben had told us to wear our uniform pieces, anything that had been passed down to us or that we found at rummage sales. Nobody had a badge. We did the badge requirements, but I don’t remember that anyone ever got a badge. George had on what he always wore, hand-me-downs from his brother Sam. Boots but no socks, bib overalls, a too-large work shirt under a nearly worn out pea coat, and his shock of reddish blond hair made him look remarkably like a “hayseed.” Gary was nattily attired in a long raincoat with a porkpie hat and a Scout neckerchief around his neck with a Cub Scout slide. Ken had the only official shirt, which he had salvaged from a rummage sale. Dick had a Scout cap. Jimmie had an undersized cap that kept falling off. Neither my brother Pat nor I had any uniform parts, but there may have been another Scout neckerchief somewhere in the crowd. Well, the Forest Rangers started down our line like a scene from a French Foreign Legion movie, stooping to inspect each boy, but finding little of merit. Our inspection went quickly, too quickly!

We peeked over at the other troops and watched them straighten each other’s caps and neckerchiefs. It was clear that this was going to be a bad start for us at this Camporee. And, soon we learned we had come in dead last. There seemed to be a little too much strutting around from the Portland troops after that.

The next contest was a test of our knowledge of the Scout Manual. To put it simply, we were clueless. Rueben had tried to coach us, but reading the manual was not our strong suite and memorizing anything from it was only a wistful hope on the part of the Scouting organization. Only Gary, who read everything, produced an acceptable answer to his question, but it was not enough to avert another disaster. Well, it was humiliating, but there was nothing we could do about it, so we worked on our campsite and put on the stew for supper. The evening mist seemed unusually cold and foreboding.

The next morning, we got the schedule for the day’s contests. First there was a wood-splitting contest to prepare wood for the morning fire. Then we were to build a fire that would blaze high enough to burn through a string stretched 30 inches above it. Next we were to prepare breakfast and have it judged. After that we were to cook a pancake, run to a wire that was strung 8 feet above the ground, flip the pancake over it, catch it, eat it, and run back to our fire. Lastly, as a team we were to build an emergency rope bridge over a small ravine.

Immediately we knew Jimmie should do the wood splitting. He did that for Scout meetings but also every morning and evening to keep his home supplied with wood. We made him take off the undersized cap however. Jimmie just went whack, whack, whack with the axe like he did every day, and suddenly there was a nice pile of firewood. The other troops had just split one or two pieces. While the wood splitting contest was going on, the judges visited the camps and had voted ours the best location and layout. Hey, maybe we could be winners!

The fire starting was clearly the job for George. He got up every morning before his mom and dad, who was a logger, and started a fire in their woodstove. His house didn’t have any insulation and you could see out through some cracks, so George had the heavy responsibility of getting the house warm in time for breakfast. The test strings were set up over the fire rings, and the judges were ready with their stop watches. At the sound of “GO!” George pulled out his knife and went to work on Jimmie’s woodpile. Soon, he had a nice stack of shavings that he built into a small teepee. Adding more wood, he struck a kitchen match on the seat of his pants and fire jumped up through the wood. The flames leaped upward and burned through the string! We looked over at the other troops and couldn’t see any flames or smoke, just a lot of yelling and the sound of knives whittling wood. We all gathered around George to congratulate him and take advantage of his warm fire.

The Meyers brothers, Ken and Dick, started work on getting our breakfast ready. Their mother was known throughout the community for her apple pancakes, and the brothers had brought some of her “pre-mix” and crisp apples. When the judges showed up, the boys had apple pancakes, bacon, and eggs going. The first Scoutmaster in his sharp uniform looked us over carefully considering our rag-tag appearance and seemed a bit pale and not too eager to join us for breakfast. After the first bite of pancake, the rest of his breakfast disappeared rather quickly. When he asked for another pancake, I knew it was all over. Mrs. Meyer’s boys had come through! It wasn’t a surprise when the other judges started coming over for pancakes and then agreeing that we had won that contest.

Next was the pancake cooking and flipping contest. For some reason this fell to me. Probably because my dad loved baseball, and I had been catching and throwing things since I was age 2. We used regular pancake batter so it would stick together better. The pancake bubbled and I turned it over to finish baking and got ready. I ran to the wire and gave it a big flip. It made several slow turns and came to rest hanging on top of the wire! For what seemed like a lifetime it hung there like a horse blanket, but then gravity overcame pancake cohesion and two parts fell toward earth. I made a couple outfielder swoops with the pan in time to catch both pieces, and gobbled them down with steam shooting out of my mouth like a dragon. Quickly I ran back to our fire. Turning around I saw one other scout running back to his fire, but all the others were either catching pancakes or picking up pieces. Our chances looked good again!

The knot-tying contest was next and fell to my brother Pat. He loved tying knots and practiced a lot on our little sister. He liked to have her run and then rope her like a calf and tie her up with one of several knots he knew. Again, a well-uniformed judge stepped up to him and handed him a short length of rope. “Tie an overhand knot,” he said. Pat whipped it up. “Tie a square knot.” A square knot he got. “Tie a clove hitch on my arm.” Oh, that was just what Pat loved to do, and the judge was duly clove hitched! “Tie a bowline.” And the rope sizzled and there was a bowline! Then intending this to be the ultimate test: “Tie a bowline on a bight.” That was actually easy because Rueben had taught us that knot in order to tie ourselves in on a rope line when we hiked together across steep rocky areas. So Pat tied himself in with a bowline on a bight. The judge beamed. Yes, we won that one too!

Building a rope bridge requires not only teamwork, but a certain amount of engineering know-how. So that fell to Gary in the long raincoat and porkpie hat. Gary was the kind of kid who spent his spare time reading the Encyclopedia Britannica and then telling you all about what he read. He had an old Erector set that he used to build amazing things like cranes, towers, and bridges. So, Gary could envision exactly what a rope bridge should look like and how it should be built.

When the contest started, he took charge and had us running in all directions with the ropes. First, we laid out the ropes forming the walkway across the small ravine. Next the handhold ropes were anchored in. Then the side webbing was woven in. We were having a great time running across the bridge and swinging on its sides when the judges cautioned us not to fall into the ravine. Looking around we saw the other troops in fits of rage or weaving each other into snarls of rope. Another win!

That wrapped up the contests. In the closing ceremony, we said the Pledge of Allegiance, one of the Scoutmasters read a devotional from the Bible, we said the Scout Oath, and loaded up to go home. We had won all the contests except the uniform and knowledge of the Scout Manual contests. Not bad for a bunch of “hicks from the sticks.” And there was noticeably less smirking going on. I recall we got a banner for the best Scout Troop at the Camporee and that was supposed to go on our Scout flagpole, which, of course, we did not have. But Rueben brought the banner faithfully to all the rest of our meetings. I think he was proud of his mountain-kid Scouts.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/06/02/humor/lighter-side/the-camporee.html/feed18The Making of an Athletehttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/26/humor/lighter-side/the-making-of-an-athlete.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/26/humor/lighter-side/the-making-of-an-athlete.html#commentsTue, 26 May 2015 16:08:35 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=109419When a woman rushes into the sporting life her new husband loves, she realizes the importance of taking things slow.

Whenever I mention kayaking in Hawaii, or whitewater rafting in West Virginia or hiking in Death Valley, people ask if I have always been athletic.

My husband Wayne, a very patient person, always lets me respond with whatever half truth pops into my mind – phrases like “dawn workouts” and “endorphin rush” pepper such statements — before he interrupts and I can graciously end by adding “but it’s important to ease into it.”

See, I was athletic at one time. Okay, maybe until age 12. Then there was a bit of a, well, gap. A 17-year gap, give or take a few years. So, yeah, I eased in. A lot.

The idea of restarting my athletic engine surfaced when I met Wayne at the University of Rochester where I worked and he attended graduate school. He spent downtime playing softball, rock climbing, canoeing, biking, running, and whitewater rafting.

My idea of athletics was speed walking to the neighborhood pizzeria – owned by a mother and daughter who gave customers a free cookie with each slice — so I could grab dinner and return to my apartment to watch a DVD of All About Eve, or another classic movie. Suffice to say we knew going in that we had our differences.

But we fell in love fast and were married three months after we met. In our haze of love, Wayne and I brushed away the concerns of others. We jibed on major things — kids (no interest), money (a grad student and an under employed writer? Uh, yeah, interest), politics (He was very involved; I was agnostic), religion (I was fairly involved; he was agnostic), lifestyle (casual but trendy).

We both loved old movies, wine tastings, literature and dinner parties with our easy-to-merge group of friends. And the different interests — especially his athleticism — intrigued me. It was like thinking I should make time to study French whenever I heard a friend speak it. Plus I was 31 and he was 29. We weren’t children. We could work out everything else.

Sure, we hit some bumps. But as Wayne and I kept reminding ourselves, patience was important. I tried to overlook the throat-clogging dust in his home office. He tried to understand that I always run late. We were easing into the whole marriage thing.

It was going so well, in fact, that I was ready to bump things up a level, to show Wayne we had more in common than even he knew. For our first anniversary, I had happily suggested we indulge in some sports fun in Virginia Beach.

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?” he asked several times, as I passed him hotel brochures, shopped for swimwear and scoped out activities. “I know that you’re really not into the beach or sports.”

Hey, what kind of rube did he think I was? I had plenty of happy childhood memories water skiing, swimming and frolicking with my family at the Finger Lakes. I was ready.

My plan was to start out with a bang, so I had thoughtfully pre-booked some activities for our first morning there.

“Wow, they rent rollerblades here, too?” I said as we stood outside the bike rental tent right off the boardwalk. “Let’s reserve some of those for later!” Clearly my enthusiasm knew no bounds.

That faded after about 15 minutes of biking down the perfectly flat path not far from the ocean. I was shouting to Wayne, who was a few yards ahead, as I tried to steer with one hand while blindly grabbing the bottom of my T-shirt with the other in an effort to wipe the sweat from my eyes. He didn’t hear me. I just stopped. My guess is that when my locomotive-like huffing faded, he realized I was finished. He circled back.

“You know, we shouldn’t overdo it the first day,” I said, running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair. “Let’s head back. I’m really anxious to try those rollerblades.”

If nothing else, Wayne got a terrific workout from the rollerblades. “No, just hold me up a bit longer,” I said as he combined cradling and pushing to move me along for a few minutes until I assured him I had my sea legs and was ready to solo.

As he skated slowly away — backward of course — I felt my feet start to go out from under me as he swooped back to steady me.

“You know what? Why don’t I just go to that bench and wait for you?” I said, noting that there was likely something wrong with the skates I had rented. “I’m sure our time is almost up anyway.”

In fact, our one-hour skate rental still had 50 minutes to go, even after Wayne took a few solo spins.

“The fellow at the store said these things happen all the time,” Wayne said after dropping off the devil blades. “Don’t worry about it. We can try it later if you want. He gave us a credit. Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

It was while walking back that I saw the sign for the jet ski rentals. “Now that is something I’ve always wanted to do!” I proclaimed, desperate to make this work. “Please, please, please?”

Mind over matter sounds fantastic, doesn’t it? I was hot and tired and my legs ached, sure, but water spraying up from a jet ski would revitalize me physically and psychologically. I had seen people of all ages and sizes enjoying jet skis. The water, the salt air, the sea gulls. What’s not to like?

“Since your wife has never ridden a jet ski, I’ll go too, just as a precaution,” said the California-tanned instructor as he led us to two separate jet skis before he climbed into a small speed boat, pulled down his mirrored sunglasses, gunned the engine, and was off.

Poor Wayne. He started his jet ski and maneuvered right behind the instructor’s boat, slowed only when he looked over his shoulder to monitor my progress.

“Just GO!” I kept yelling as fear swelled in my throat and I mumbled profanities under my breath, truly wondering if I’d drown as water slapped my calf. And just how big were those swooping sea gulls, anyway? Images of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds floated through my mind. “I’m fine! Really! Go!”

It was maybe a minute later that I heard shouting from the dock. I later realized the bellows came from the fisherman whose lines I had severed when I drove too close. I wish I could tell you that I’m joking when I mention that I also severed the lines on my return trip. By then I was so terrified, I didn’t even notice their screams.

Little did I know Wayne was facing his own terror. A few minutes after I screamed at him to “Go!” he looked back and I was the one who was gone.

He had no idea I had retreated. He began to circle the instructor’s boat, shouting that they needed to return and find me.

I was near hysteria as Wayne glided up to my jet ski and tried to help me dock. The instructor shouted for him to move back, then jumped from his boat onto a floating tire and somehow pulled me in. Details of my rescue are a bit foggy, but I recall wondering if I had been too hasty in considering death as a negative outcome. I mean, people were stopping to look. Children were pointing.

I surely looked like a toddler taking her first steps — complete with red eyes, a runny nose, and messy hair — as I awkwardly dismounted my now silenced nemesis and wobbled, arms out, toward Wayne who stood waiting, towel in hand.

“We need to start you out slowly,” Wayne said as he guided me back to the car. “I think walking is really your sport for now.”

It sounds crazy, I know, but Wayne wasn’t kidding. And neither was I. While my enthusiasm, at least to that point, was high, my abilities were, well, what’s way beyond low? So we started out walking, then walking faster, than hiking. As I came to enjoy exercise, I tried more things. Some were right for me (cross country skiing, whitewater rafting). Others, like rock climbing, aren’t.

You know what’s funny? While we’ll never share all interests, we try to appreciate if not enjoy them. That was all part of easing into enjoying sports, and life, together after a rapid-fire courtship.

“You know, I just love being active,” I say to those who ask. And I always see Wayne smile when I do. After all, he knows how much I mean it when I say it’s important to “ease in.”

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/26/humor/lighter-side/the-making-of-an-athlete.html/feed0Nature Is Trying to Kill Mehttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/19/humor/lighter-side/nature-is-trying-to-kill-me.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/19/humor/lighter-side/nature-is-trying-to-kill-me.html#commentsTue, 19 May 2015 13:44:04 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=109319How one woman is coming to terms with her fear of the big bad outdoors.

If there were a 12-step program for my particular problem, I’d introduce myself this way: “Hi, my name is Cheryl, and I’m a recovering nature-phobe. It has been 38 years since my last traumatic hiking experience.”

I was 8 years old at the time, and finally deemed mature enough to join my father, his buddy Bert, and my older sister Michele on their annual backpacking trip along the Tuolumne River. As I trudged down the foot-wide trail through a forested canyon, my dad walking ahead of me, my sister and Bert behind, I was puffed up with pride and full of questions like How long is this trail? When can I eat my snack? When do I get to sit down? When are we gonna get there?

Each question received a one-word, grunting response from Dad, which confused me until my sister hissed, “Shut up,” through gritted teeth, indicating that my chattering was a major breach of some unspoken backpacking etiquette.

So I shut up. Until I heard an unusual sound, coming from a trailside bush that my dad had just walked past. Something like a rattling sound. I stopped beside the bush and said, to my dad’s back, “What’s that sound?”

My half-deaf father turned his good ear toward me and asked, “What sound?”

I pointed to the bush, “That sound.”

I don’t remember anyone actually saying the word rattlesnake. All I remember is my dad launching into this series of slow-motion ninja moves. He swept his left arm around and placed his palm on my chest, easing me away from the bush, while his right hand reached for the holster on his hip.

Oh yeah, the holster. The gun. The fact that my dad was packing heat didn’t faze me. He carried a firearm on every family car camping trip, every daytime fishing excursion, every family vacation in a condo at Lake Tahoe. Why? Because you never know. That’s why.

So I was used to guns, but I had never actually watched my dad shoot one. When I saw him reaching for the holster, his eyes laser-beam focused on the unnamed threat coiled in that bush, my 8-year-old brain said, Something very dangerous is happening.

And I responded like any seasoned hiker would. I screamed, burst into tears, turned tail, and sprinted back up the trail toward the Pinto station wagon we had left parked on the remote dirt road up there. That is, I intended to sprint, but a fist gripped my backpack holding me in place, and my sister, to whom it belonged, hissed in my ear, “Stay here,” with such authority that I stayed.

Hands pressed to my face, I watched through splayed fingers as my dad aimed the pistol toward the bush, his face transforming into an expression that could only mean I’m gonna get you sucka, and shot two canon-loud blasts into a snake I never did see.

Then, pulling a page from the trauma manual entitled If You Pretend Nothing Happened No One Will Be Scared, my dad turned toward me — my tear-streaked face, my trembling body — and said, “What’s the problem?” He shrugged and continued walking toward camp.

Now I realize that my response to this situation was probably personality-specific. Some kids would be all “Dude! My dad’s a freakin’ hero!” I, on the other hand, thought this: “Oh my god, nature is trying to kill me.”

Enter nature-phobia. I spent the rest of the backpacking trip terrified. Every stick on the ground was a snake. Every leaf that fell from a tree was a poisonous insect flying at me. Every rustle in the bushes was a rabid badger thirsty for my blood.

That weekend I learned that nature was a dangerous threat. But I learned something else, too. At night, lying in my sleeping bag, looking up at the sky, I learned that out beyond the light pollution of the city I could see more stars than I ever knew existed. And they seemed closer somehow, like I could reach out and touch one. Seeing that made me feel both expansively large and very, very small. Under that glittering canopy, I listened to Bert, somewhere in the dark of our camp, playing his harmonica, songs I’d never heard before, their slow notes rising to the heavens, until I fell asleep.

I had no word to attach to that feeling back then, but now I do: reverence. I grew hungry for it.

And therein lies the problem: I loved nature as much as I feared it.

This conflict has played itself out in many ways throughout my life. But it really came to a head in college, when I was hanging out with a group of friends who loved to go hiking. I wanted to love to go hiking — wanted the reverence, finally, to eclipse the fear — so I tagged along.

Those hikes would start out peacefully enough. I’d have my backpack looped onto my shoulders, my snacks, my water bottle, my birding book, my binoculars — ready to love the great outdoors. I’d be chattering in my head about the crisp beauty of the fresh morning air, the hyper-blue sky, the birdsong emanating from the canopy of trees, and then WHAM! Something would startle me.

“What was that?!” I’d gasp.

“A squirrel?” my friends would say.

Oh, yeah, squirrel, I’d think. Then I’d start chanting: just a squirrel, just a squirrel, just a squirrel, my heart pounding like shoes in a dryer. I’d take a few deep breaths, start to calm down and then WHAM! Something would skitter across the trail and I’d be all, “What was that?!”

“A lizard?” my friends would say.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” I’d nod. And the whole process would start all over again.

After several near misses with squirrels and lizards and butterflies and mourning doves, a half-mile into the trail, my adrenaline would be pumping so hard that my eyeballs would be pounding to the rhythm of my heartbeat, and I’d know there would be no calming myself down. So rather than twitching my way along the trail like a junky in withdrawal, I’d abort the hiking mission, choose the most patient friend in the group, and ask him or her to walk me back to the parking lot, where I would eat my bagel and sip my water in the relative peace of my Mercury Lynx.

Ugh. The frustration. So badly, I wanted to revel in my love of nature without the knee-buckling fear. So I started reflecting on the origins of said fear. One day, while hiking up near Bolinas (the town where Alfred Hitchcock filmed — ahem — The Birds?), I shared some of my thoughts with a friend, “You know what’s weird?” I asked.

“No, what?” he responded.

“When we go hiking, we don’t carry a gun,” I said.

“You know what’s weird?” he countered.

“What?” I asked.

“Your dad does.”

Revelation No. 1: Apparently, most people don’t carry guns while hiking well-marked trails in state parks. Huh. So, as logic might follow, maybe what we were doing wasn’t actually all that dangerous?

I decided to press the issue, asking, “But what would we do if we saw a rattlesnake?”

“We’d turn around and walk the other way?” my companion suggested.

What?!

Revelation No. 2: You don’t need to go storming through nature, guns a blazin’; you could just, you know, respect it.

Okay. Now I was getting somewhere.

High on my two revelations and eager to put them into play, one day I decided to try a solo hike. This wasn’t a well-thought-out plan; it was more of an impulsive, Hey, there’s a trailhead, and I have 20 minutes free sort of a thing. So yes, I was wearing flip-flops and a sundress, and I had no water or snacks, but I figured all the better. Maybe hiking didn’t need to be a big expedition? Maybe it could just be like a peaceful walk around the neighborhood?

Up the trail I went.

To my surprise, I was feeling pretty darned comfortable, enjoying the early summer breeze, hiking amongst the mountain bikers, runners, and lunch-hour walkers on this truck-wide fire trail. So comfortable, in fact, that when I noticed a shed snakeskin alongside the trail, I challenged myself to stop and take a look at it. Then, just to prove to myself how very brave I could be, I decided to crouch down for a closer look. And just as I was mustering up the courage to reach out and touch the scaly thing, out of a hole about two feet away from my left flip-flop came the skin’s former occupant.

Holy mother of …

My sister would be proud to know that this time I did not actually scream or burst into tears. I did, however, turn tail and sprint down that hill as fast as my feet could take me, kicking up more dust than a Ford F-150.

But then something interesting happened. In my state of panic, I felt myself astrally project upward, and suddenly I could see myself, this crazy young woman with wild red hair, flying down a hill in her sundress and flip-flops, and I thought, I look ridiculous.

I stopped in my tracks and realized what I was doing: I was sprinting like my hair was on fire, because I actually thought the snake was chasing me. Chasing me. Like I was what, a Looney Tunes character? Snakes don’t chase people.

Enter Revelation No. 3: Most of what I feared would happen in nature doesn’t actually happen. Squirrels don’t go for your jugular. Turkey vultures eat you only if you’re already dead. And bats don’t actually want to get tangled in your hair. That’s when I realized what I needed to combat my nature-phobia was not a Colt .45, but more information.

So I did a little research, learning things like “venomous snakes have diamond-shaped heads,” and “if you see a mountain lion, don’t turn and run,” and “if you get bitten by a black widow you have plenty of time to get to the emergency room before your leg shrivels up and falls off.” Slowly, over time, I became aware of nature’s actual dangers and released the unnecessary fears.

Like all recovery processes, the work has been challenging and often maddeningly slow, but the payoff has been gorgeous. I have hiked in bamboo forests; I have watched seals teach their pups how to swim; I have sat quietly, completely alone, on the tip of Tomales Point, listening to elk whistle into the wind. Each of these gifts has felt hard-earned and therefore so incredibly sweet.

In the past two decades, nature has become my church. To quote Paul (McCartney) and John (Lennon), “when I find myself in times of trouble,” all I need to do is head for the nearest hill, and by the time I’ve climbed to the top, I have received whatever wisdom I need. Whether it’s a metaphor like a wildflower growing out of a rock or an inner truth revealed when the physical activity of hiking pulls me down out of my endlessly whirring thoughts into the quiet home of my body, the message I need to hear finds me, every time, without fail.

I fully admit that I am still a bit of a nature-phobe. For example, when my friends announced their plans to hike across South America, my first question was “Isn’t that, like, the home of the world’s largest rodent?” When they confirmed my suspicions, I scratched “Hiking Across South America” right off my bucket list. So yeah, my name is Cheryl, and I’m still a nature-phobe, but I’m recovering. And that’s what matters the most.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/05/19/humor/lighter-side/nature-is-trying-to-kill-me.html/feed2Maypole Memorieshttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/04/27/humor/lighter-side/maypole-memories.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/04/27/humor/lighter-side/maypole-memories.html#commentsMon, 27 Apr 2015 13:00:11 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=108635Once upon a time, it was the centerpiece of May Day, a holiday sadly no longer recognized

Several years ago, our town built a new elementary school, everything from the old school was hauled to the new, except for the playground maypole, which had been removed after flinging some kid into the next county. The maypole was the centerpiece of May Day, a holiday no longer recognized in our town after people noticed the communists were holding parades that day and deep-sixed it. But Mrs. Conley, my fourth-grade teacher, wasn’t cowed by capitalists or communists, so marched us to the maypole, where we welcomed spring. The most agile boy trailing streamers of ribbon would shinny up the pole, tie them off at the top, then slide back down. We would take the ribbons in hand, extend them straight like spokes on a wheel, and parade in a circle, earths of humanity orbiting our maypole sun. Mrs. Conley would recite from William Wordsworth’s poem “Lines Written in Early Spring”:

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

By then it was lunch and we would file inside to the cafeteria where Mrs. Sisk had been cooking all morning. In concession to spring, our thrill of pleasure was ice cream for dessert, eaten with flat wooden spoons that left splinters on our tongues. I sat next to Stevie Wright, who was lactose intolerant long before the phrase had been coined. For the sake of his health, I would eat his ice cream, too.

May Day signaled the first day of recess baseball. Mrs. Conley would carry the bats and balls out to the playground, then leave us to divide into teams and play. Today, adults insert themselves into the game to coach and umpire, to keep things on the up-and-up, but Mrs. Conley believed in free-range baseball, in letting us settle matters ourselves, first yelling and screaming, then lowering our voices, giving here, taking there, seeking common ground. Workers of the world uniting, just like the communists.

I was chosen near the end, an obvious burden to any team, so while playing right field would drift unnoticed to the maypole. Other boys would be there, running in circles, lifting off their feet, riding the currents of centrifugal force like the hopping birds of Wordsworth’s poem.

Occasionally, a boy would let loose and take flight, landing in a bloody skid on the gravel that covered the playground. Today, playgrounds are covered with shredded rubber to ensure soft landings, but back then we understood the gravel as a metaphor, that high flying eventually resulted in rough landings.

When I was in high school, I dated a girl who lived a block from the school. In the spring of our romance, we met there and swung, side by side, hardly talking. She was shy and I was scared, knowing talk was expected. Instead, we would see how high we could swing, arcing back and forth until the chains were parallel to the earth. The chains would sag and we would feel weightless, descending until the chains caught tight, jerking and twisting us. Now those lines written in early spring are faded, replaced by fresher lines since written.

]]>This magazine will land on your doorstep sometime in early January, which should give you ample time to get me a present for my 54th birthday on February 5. Often, as people age, they tell their family and friends not to bother with their birthday, that gifts aren’t necessary, that they shouldn’t make a fuss. I’m not one of those people. I love being fussed over and given gifts. In fact, I’ve set aside the entire day so people will have ample opportunity to do nice things for me. Since you asked, let me suggest a few of the things you could do to improve my special day.

I wake up each morning around 5. That isn’t my preference, but our dog stands at our bedroom door and whines to be taken outside to pee. For some reason, that job has fallen to me. If you’re having a hard time thinking of what to get me, you can come take our dog out at 4:55 a.m., before it has scratched on our bedroom door. We don’t lock our house, so come in the back door, whistle for the dog — very quietly so as not to waken me — and walk it up to the empty lot.

If it’s raining, you’ll have to bring your own umbrella, since I left mine on an airplane. It was made in England, and I’d had it nearly 25 years. When you come to let our dog out, you can bring me a new umbrella. Not one of those cheap ones you get at CVS or Walmart, but a nice one, a gentleman’s walking umbrella, made in England by James Ince & Sons Ltd., maker of fine umbrellas since 1805. I won’t lie to you; they’re not cheap. It’ll set you back a couple of hundred dollars, but I think our friendship is worth it, don’t you? If you order it today, it should get here in plenty of time for my birthday. Even if it’s a day or two late, I understand and won’t hold it against you.

If dogs and umbrellas aren’t your thing, I’ve been needing my garage cleaned for some time. It has dirty slush on the floor, mixed in with sawdust left over from a summer project. When our younger son moved out last year, he left a lot of stuff behind in the garage and no longer seems interested in it. It depresses me to look at it; so if you could haul it away, I’d be grateful. There are some half-empty paint cans out there, dried into solid chunks. You can take those away, too. If some of the paint is still good, maybe you could touch up the house, as long as you’re here.

About 10 years ago, I bought two nice bikes for my wife and me. They’re out in the garage too. We haven’t ridden them in five years, so the tires are flat and they’re covered with dust. I don’t like admitting it, but we’ll never ride them again. Getting rid of them feels like an admission of failure, a recognition that we’re fat, lazy, and stupid, and not likely to change; so there they sit, taking up valuable space. If, for my birthday, you want to buy them from me for $200 apiece, that would be a nice present.

Since my birthday is in mid-winter, gifts of firewood are always welcome. My supply is running thin by February, since I start burning wood early, usually the first cold night in early October. Five ricks of wood for my birthday would see me through to spring. Don’t be cheap about it, or try to pawn off four ricks as five, like a typical sneaky firewood seller. A rick of wood should measure 8 feet long, 4 feet high, and roughly 16 inches wide. I’ll be measuring it, so don’t try to cheat me on my birthday.

By early February, I’m getting tired of Indiana’s cold and snow, so if any of you have a place in the Caribbean and want to let me borrow it for the month of February, that would be especially considerate. I would prefer it came with a maid. There’s nothing worse than having to do your own laundry the month of your birthday.

Now let’s talk about cake. I have diabetes, so my wife isn’t likely to bake me one. I like chocolate cake with chocolate icing, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. I don’t need an entire cake, just one smallish, diabetes-friendly piece. You can give the rest of it to someone else or eat it yourself. That will be my gift to you, which I hope helps you appreciate how doing something nice for my birthday helps both of us.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/01/26/humor/lighter-side/birthday.html/feed1It’s Just So Much Tommy Rothttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/01/06/humor/lighter-side/just-much-tommy-rot.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/01/06/humor/lighter-side/just-much-tommy-rot.html#commentsTue, 06 Jan 2015 14:00:56 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=106090Not all Toms are peepers. Not all Thomases doubt. The name Tom finds no protection. Even William Shakespeare fearlessly mocked it.

]]>You’ve probably never given it a second thought. But I have. After all, my name is Tom.

In our politically correct, super-sensitive society, the name Tom finds no protection, for it is maligned with impunity. It’s been that way throughout history. I’m sure my mother didn’t consider it when she named me after Virginia’s colonial governor and revolutionary war hero, Thomas Nelson, who was slighted by history (it was he, not Washington, who cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown). Poor Tom.

So where’s the proof that Toms are assaulted in our daily lexicon? You don’t have to look far:

Peeping Tom

Uncle Tom

Tomboy

Doubting Thomas

Tom Cat

Tom Foolery

You get the gist. It’s not just so much Tommy rot. My fellow Toms and I have become little more than a negative figure of speech.

To bolster my assertions, I did a little research on the origins of Thomas. The name, which is biblical, literally means “twin.” I missed a few Sunday school classes, so don’t hold me to the finer points. But as I understand it, Jesus found himself with two disciples named Judas. To avoid confusion, he renamed one of them Thomas. (I guess I should be grateful because obviously I wouldn’t like to carry Judas around with me all day.)

Apparently, not long after he got his new name, Thomas began questioning his benefactor and undoubtedly the first pejorative use of the name Thomas found its way into the history books. I doubt he knew how widespread and long-lasting his skepticism would be remembered. A Book of Thomas was written, but it was labeled by some as distasteful and redundant in the mid-second century and, obviously, never made the final cut. Clearly a pattern began to emerge.

Fast forward in history a thousand or so years and we find Lady Godiva riding bareback through the streets of Coventry dressed only in her long flowing hair. As the legend goes, villagers agreed to close their shutters and look away. But not Thomas. Curiosity got the better of him, and he took a little peek. Whether or not he was struck blind or dead for being caught in the act, this much is sure: Generations of Thomases have paid the price for his indiscretion ever since.

About the same time as Lady Godiva’s ride, it was apparently great sport in England to watch the antics of insane people in asylums. Reality TV had its roots here, I fear. This pastime led to some very unfortunate nicknames — Tom O’Bedlam and Tom Fool — what else? Even the renowned William Shakespeare feared no repercussions for denigrating the name Tom, for by then the name was already synonymous with the worst of society. Indeed, it had become part of the common vernacular. In play after play, Toms are mere simpletons, degenerates, and fools. In King Lear, for instance, “poor Tom’s a’cold” is portrayed as a madman living in a hovel and then later, just to make sure the point is clear, he is labeled a “fool.” Ouch. I’m sure not everyone living in a hovel was a Tom, but even back then it would have been in poor taste to have called them by name, so we’ll never know.

Brace yourself, there’s more. Jumping across the pond to America, we find the pre-Civil War best seller Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Even today, over 150 years after it was written, nobody wants to be called an Uncle Tom. The evil Uncle Tom moniker has stuck. It’s unfortunate for me and perhaps millions like me, for a quick analysis of census data reveals that indeed in America today there are at least 800,000 Uncle Toms, maybe even a million. On those occasions when I’ve ventured into public with my nieces and nephews, I’ve laid down the rule: If we get separated, go back to the designated meeting place and whatever you do, don’t yell, “Uncle Tom, where are you?!”

The pejorative use of the word Tom isn’t limited to males either. Our sisters are almost equally maligned. In 18th century London, for example, a Tom was regarded as a lady of the night, derived no doubt from Tomrig or Tom Tart, defined in the dictionary as “sexually loose” women. Why, even Tomboy was once more than today’s affectionate term for a boyish little girl. Originally, the term was a euphemism for “bold, immodest women” as well as “rude and sexually uncontrolled” girls.

Promiscuity, thy name is Tom.

Admittedly, there are some Toms history holds in high esteem. But they’re few and far between. There’s Thomas Hardy. Thomas Payne. Thomas Jefferson. Thomas Edison. Thomas More, but maybe he shouldn’t count because, after all, he was beheaded.

My wife tells me I’m too sensitive. Be grateful there’s no such thing as a Dear Tom letter or a Port-a-Tom, she tells me.

But truth be known, it does bother me. Sadly, despite my protest, the whole thing draws no sympathy from my two brothers — Dick and Harry.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2015/01/06/humor/lighter-side/just-much-tommy-rot.html/feed1A Week Proposalhttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/30/humor/lighter-side/week-proposal.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/30/humor/lighter-side/week-proposal.html#commentsTue, 30 Dec 2014 14:00:35 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=105818Why stop celebrating on New Year's when there are so many other weeks to celebrate?

]]>Did you make an omelet during National Egg Week? Did your spouse stop biting his or her nails during National Pet Peeve Week? Do you plan to have a few close friends over to celebrate National Intimate Apparel Week? These and other national weeks were established to pay homage to the many things we take for granted in everyday life. There are national weeks for hobbies (National Gardening Week, National Karaoke Week, and National Bathroom Reading Week), professions (National Ventriloquism Week, National Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetists Week, and National Clown Week), and food (National Pizza Week, National Split Pea Soup Week, and National Pickle Week), just to name a few.

The only problem with all of these festivals is that there are more national weeks than there are calendar weeks, over one hundred, not counting the ones like Be Nice to New Jersey Week, that don’t begin with the word “National.” The following are some observances that didn’t make the official list, and as long as we Americans don’t seem to mind doubling up on our national weeks, we should think about instituting some of them.

National Postal Service Week would feature official celebrations in all fifty states, at least three of which would be open at any one time. Presently, though, the U.S. Postal Service is reviewing this festival, trying to decide whether it should include celebrations on Saturday.

The people who proposed National Physicians Week thought we could commemorate it by sitting in our doctors’ waiting rooms for seven days, but abandoned the idea when they realized we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the festival and a normal appointment.

In observance of National Joke Week, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi would walk into a bar and have a conversation which, on the surface would seem to be religious, but which further scrutiny would show to be otherwise.

To celebrate National Proofreaders Week, editors across the country would check our spelling and grammars one more time to make sure our manuscripts are as well as they can be.

National Politicians Week would salute some true American heroes, our elected officials, and the challenging, selfless, and dedicated hard work they do every day, thinking only of us and our best interests.

National Sarcasm Week: see above.

The shortest of the celebrations, National Tolerance Week, would be held on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday only, because three days is about as long as Americans can stand people who are different. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday would become part of You Know What Your Problem Is? Week. Sunday, as always, would be reserved for religious observations, during which we would learn about how God wants us to respect and tolerate others.

During National Service Economy Week we would just stand in line for seven days while minimum-wage workers texted their friends instead of taking our fast food orders.

National Obsessive/Compulsive Week was meant to honor meticulous people. It was called off, however, when the Organizing Committee discovered that the Refreshment Committee had cut the sandwiches for the celebration across the middle, rather than on the diagonal, and had arranged the cups in separate stacks of red, white, and blue, instead of the alternating red, white, and blue pattern clearly called for in a special vote of the Rules Committee pursuant to Section 3, Paragraph 9 of the Bylaws on Eating Utensil Arrangement.

One of the simplest celebrations would be National Fan Appreciation Week, during which the superstars of sports would say thanks to their devoted fans by allowing the people who idolize them to visit their locker rooms, take their pictures, and buy their autographs.

National High School Graduates Week would feature parties in Duluth, Anaheim, Tallahassee, Baton Rouge, Council Bluffs, New York, and other cities most eighteen year-olds can’t find on a map.

Another event that people tried to put together was National Auto Mechanics Week, and at first they thought it would be relatively simple. Once they got into the planning, though, they discovered that there would be a lot more labor than they had originally thought, and that it would cost twice the original estimate. Besides, the week was supposed to start no later than noon on Saturday, but they wouldn’t be able to finish the preparations until the end of the workday Tuesday, Wednesday morning tops.

My college roommate’s mother knows a guy whose next-door neighbor’s uncle works with a woman whose nephew’s cousin’s sister-in-law dated a man who was one of the organizers of National Urban Legends Week. The observance was supposed to feature balloons in the shape of the alligators in the New York City sewer system, centerpieces made of exploding cacti, and a keynote address from the vanishing hitchhiker in the white dress. However, the week was called off when members returned to their cars to find bloody hooks from the arms of escaped murderers dangling from their door handles.

National Labor Relations Week will be only four days long this year as a result of an eleventh-hour agreement between labor and the organizers that narrowly averted its cancellation altogether. Next year, though, it will be nine days long, and in the third year of the contract will last ten and a half days.

National Teachers Week. Nah, forget it. They already get June, July, and August.

Of course, the cynics among us would argue that even the official national weeks are just blatant attempts by special interest groups to curry favor with a gullible public, and will put this country in the toilet. Luckily, if that ever happens, we already have National Scoop the Poop Week on the books. For these people I suggest National National Week Week, one national week in honor of all the other national weeks. This would allow them to get past all the hoop-la and get on with their lives. Yet, in a country that sets aside observances for laundry, school lunches, and condoms, who would notice if a few of the ones from this list made it into the record?

Combine the 75 percent off after Christmas store sales with the imminent 12-inch snowstorm, and folks in our town sprinted to the stores and malls ready to load up on crap and toilet paper. On the third day of the new year, highways were bumper-to-bumper, parking lots overflowing, and tempers the only short thing around.

My students had presented me with a department-store gift card, and I was ready to spend some of my hard-earned cash. I tugged on my fur-topped waterproof boots to trudge to the car through the remaining slop from the last snow. My husband and I joined the throng of shoppers. As usual, he headed to the electronics department, and I sought out the bargain clothing aisle. Why, I don’t know. This department store notoriously caters to the under-30 crowd, and what used to fit me when I was 30, wouldn’t even come close now. But the gift card had my name all over it. Fully aware that there was nothing in the Juniors’ Department that I could insert a body part into, I located the Women’s Department. I was well aware that the sizes in this store don’t compare to the One-Size-Almost-Fits-All store where I normally shop. Still, I was hopeful, and selected a pair of stretchy black slacks. When I held up those pants with an elastic band, I realized right away that I’d need a different letter on the tag than I normally wear. In my preschool classroom the letters are alphabetized, but here, the next size after “M” wasn’t “N.” I sort of squeaked when I held up the “L” pants and noticed they were too tiny for my thunder thighs no matter how much Lycra they contained. I silently swore at myself for devouring the doughnuts, capitulating to the Christmas cookies, and gorging on the Godiva. Double digits on a clothing tag is one thing, but double letters would do me in. I wasn’t going to do it.

Leaving the carpeted area and plodding along the tile floor, I passed the teeny-tiny lingerie. I could have bought a set for my granddaughter’s fashion dolls. I turned to walk away and swore some more at my hippo hips and ba-da-boom boobs. I’d look horrible in a swimsuit if I didn’t start right away to amend my ways. I’d walk some of the calories off, I decided. I’d kick it into high gear, really walk up and down every aisle at a good clip. Imagining floating in the turquoise ocean I allowed myself to daydream as I hotfooted it and high-stepped through the crowd. I had visions of sandy beaches in my mind when I actually heard the sound of summer at my feet. Slap-slap-slap, the loud noise of flip-flops. What was it? I stopped. The noise stopped. I walked, and there it was again. Step-slap, step-slap. The flat heel on my left boot had dislodged and was flapping like a flag in a snowstorm. I came to an abrupt stop. Each time I walked people looked at me curiously. I gazed at the floor in search of a rubber band. I considered ripping off a hunk of duct tape, but I knew hidden cameras would capture my antics. Whenever a shopper approached, I stopped in my tracks and feigned interest in Ho-Ho-Ho holiday boxers or whatever hoopla was on end caps.

Shuffle-slide, don’t lift your foot and you’ll be able to make it to the door. I dragged my leg like a lame duck. I scooted to the card aisle and stopped to rest my cramped leg muscle. I perused several greeting cards, opened another one, and jumped when the dang thing blared an old-time rock and roll song at me. A singing card! Now I could say I’d heard everything. I shoved that $5 whiz bang back onto the shelf and shuffled off. I got as far as the office supply area. I looked for an open bag of rubber bands. No such luck. Then I spied the answer to my problem. A hot glue gun in a beautiful shade of ocean blue! I knew exactly what to do. I am notorious for using hot glue in my classroom to mount everything from cardboard to wooden shelves. I reasoned with myself. Head to the bathroom, find an electrical outlet and plug it in. Then, glue your heel back onto your boot. It’s not like you’re stealing. If security personnel follow you inside, tell them you will purchase the opened product at the checkout with your gift card. Flash it in their face. Be cool, don’t be obvious, or arouse suspicion, just reach for the glue gun and go. Now. Do it!

Glue gun in hand, I pivoted to the left, took two steps, and my entire sole dislodged. That rotten hunk of rubber suction-cupped itself to the floor like the no-spill plate on a toddler’s high chair.

I’ve walked out of my shoes before, but never off of them. Too embarrassed to follow through with my plan, I hung up my gun, certain that at any minute I would be apprehended for suspicion of shoplifting, certainly not shopping. I scanned the area. I waited for the grandma in the motorized “hot wheelchair” to speed by, and when the mom, with four demanding kids, screamed past, I refused to yield to traffic and joined right in. I limped along to the front of the store. I hoisted myself on a high stool and parked myself by the aromatic popcorn popper, tempted to spend my hard-earned card one way or the other. I resisted. Instead, I dangled my legs and watched shoppers come and go. My husband finally showed up. When he saw my expression he asked with concern, “What’s wrong?”

I grimaced, “We have to get out of here. Now!” I ducked my head and said, “I just lost my sole.”

He looked stricken. His eyes widened, and he said, “What the heck did you DO that was so bad in Target?”

]]>When I was in my mid-20s, I asked Santa for a house, but got a shirt instead. Apparently, Santa didn’t care what I wanted, so I stopped believing in him. I’ve become so cynical these past few years I’m starting to have doubts about the Easter Bunny, too.

So far the only one who’s delivered the goods is Old Man Winter. Last year, I asked him for lots of snow and the geezer came through. Our town got 55 inches of snow, instead of our usual 25. Of course, there’s no pleasing some people. You’d be amazed how upset some folks were, bellyaching about having to shovel a little snow. Like my wife, for instance, even though I had given her a new shovel for Christmas.

This year, I’m giving Santa the chance to redeem himself so have asked him for a white Christmas. There’s nothing worse than waking up on Christmas morning and seeing dead brown grass instead of snow. Well, maybe cancer is worse, but just barely. It depends on the kind of cancer. I had skin cancer last year and not having snow for Christmas was definitely worse than my skin cancer, which the doctor fixed in five minutes. Yes, I’m a cancer survivor, but I prefer not to talk about it. No sense getting people all depressed.

Where was I? Oh, yes, snow for Christmas. Twelve inches, please. I’m a pastor and have to work on Christmas Eve, so if the snow could start falling in the late afternoon of the 24th and get me a day off work, that would be even better. Then I’d apologize to Santa Claus for ever doubting him. Twelve inches of snow, then a cold snap so it won’t melt for at least two months. Thirty, maybe 40 below zero, so it would be too cold for school and my wife could stay home and carry in firewood for our woodstove. Thanks to me, she’s in tremendous shape for a woman in her 50s.

As wonderful as snow is, it’s odd that it leads to the worst thing ever, which is slush. Slush is even worse than dead brown grass at Christmas. Dead brown grass doesn’t spill over the tops of your shoes and soak your socks.

The best thing about snow is the stillness. I guess what I’m really asking Santa for is peace and quiet. When it snows people stay home, except for our town’s snowplow driver, Ray Whitaker, who passes by in the moon hours, his amber strobe casting shadows across our bedroom wall. We live on the north edge of town, the Welcome to Danville sign is in our side yard. Ray plows the street up to the sign, then puts his truck in reverse. I can hear the beeper on his truck as he backs up a half block, turns around, and heads into town.

For the 14 years my dad served on the town board, he took doughnuts to Ray the morning after every snowfall, but would always bring one home to me. Whenever it snows, I think of doughnuts. Dad no longer drives, so now I’m the doughnut man. Ray has the streets clear by 6 a.m., so I drive to Kroger, buy a box of doughnuts, and take them to Ray, who is at the town garage, brushing the snow off his truck before pulling it into the bay. If it snows on Christmas Eve this year, Ray will have to do without doughnuts since Kroger is closed on Christmas morning. My wife will make him blueberry coffee cake instead.

Ray complains whenever it snows, but it’s all a show. Like most men, he loves an adventure, and there are few things as exciting as being out in a heavy snow. Sometimes I’ll even take Ray doughnuts before the streets are cleared, just for the thrill of it. There are three hills between our house and town, so I have to get a good head of steam up before hitting each hill. Even so, my tires spin, as does my mind, to silent winters past.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/17/humor/lighter-side/what-i-want-for-christmas.html/feed2Assistant Manager of the Universehttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/16/humor/lighter-side/assistant-manager-universe.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/16/humor/lighter-side/assistant-manager-universe.html#commentsTue, 16 Dec 2014 15:06:19 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=105196There’s no paycheck with this position, just endless pestering, a stream of questions from lost souls who think you know what you’re doing, wherever you happen to be.

I have no vest, no name tag, but I’ve realized I am the assistant manager of the universe. (Sergey Nivens/Shutterstock.com)

I have no vest, no name tag, but I’ve realized I am the assistant manager of the universe. Apparently I have the permanent, nondescript visage of a jaded employee, one who can solve unimportant problems but really just wants to take a quick lunch break. There’s no paycheck with this position, just endless pestering, a stream of questions from lost souls who think I know what I’m doing, wherever I happen to be.

“Where’s the bathroom in this restaurant?”

“What aisle is the fat-free nondairy creamer in?”

“Can I take this fat-free, nondairy creamer into the bathroom?”

I’ve learned many things from the deluge of questions wherever I go, but the main thing is this: People are weird and they’re always looking for a bathroom. Even the Laundromat isn’t a safe place; I’m often asked about the best detergent and full fold-and-fluff services or, more often, “How do you work this thing?”

In my younger days, I chalked it all up to the fact that I worked at the information desk in a small-town chamber of commerce. Our little town is charming and colorful with steep hills topped by Victorian homes. It’s also eccentric enough that meds should be pumped directly into the water; perhaps a delightful Prozac/fluoride combo that would mellow out the locals, yet still give them great smiles. Mix that with a bustling tourist trade, and I have answered some very bizarre questions over the years, including how stretchy the laws are about first cousins marrying and if that giant statue on the edge of town is natural or manmade (also, is there a restaurant in the head?).

Just like fast-food employees reek of that French fry smell, I theorized that I gave off powerful information fumes when I left the job at the end of the day. I would walk into a grocery store past a couple studying an area map, and my all-knowing scent would waft into their nostrils and they would chase me down the potato chip aisle for directions to a country music show. Occasionally I would be backed up against a wall with an odd rant about parking, to which I would reply, “The bathroom is right over there,” and make my exit while they looked at me with the same stunned look as a grizzly bear finding a salmon singing “The Sun Will Come out Tomorrow.”

For the really tough cases, I would jingle keys in my pocket, look thoughtful, then point out some random person wearing a tie and say, “Oh, there’s the manager, you should talk to him.”

Once my young Info Desk days were done, and I settled into the snarky, comfortable life and sedentary body of a writer, I believed my days as an assistant manager at large were done. Alas, this was not the case. Back then I was young and cute and thought I knew everything, but now I’m middle-aged, wrinkled, and scowl enough that people suspect I must know everything, otherwise, why would I be so cranky?

But, as always, I end up helping them, just like I do when I’m still asked how to use the triple-load washers in the Laundromat, or how to find the embarrassing ointment aisle in Walmart. With each encounter, my patience gets a workout. Perhaps maybe I should just focus on job satisfaction.

When two fresh-faced yuppies stop their hybrid car to ask me about vegan restaurants while I’m speed-walking and dripping in fat-lady sweat, I should realize that these people trust me enough to involve me in their day. They’re saying, “Hey, you don’t look like a serial killer,” which should be taken as a compliment considering the state of the country today. I usually do know where all the bathrooms are located in any place at any given time, because I’m at the age where restroom proximity is need-to-know stuff. So I guess I can accept my status as the “ask her, she looks like she works here” woman. I’ll continue to answer questions about where you can return that hideous blouse or when the restaurant closes. It’s not a bad gig.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/12/16/humor/lighter-side/assistant-manager-universe.html/feed4Taking Back Halloweenhttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/10/22/humor/lighter-side/taking-back-halloween.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/10/22/humor/lighter-side/taking-back-halloween.html#commentsWed, 22 Oct 2014 13:00:16 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=100680Isn’t this holiday supposed to be for kids? Somehow, in our lifetime, parents have taken over and pretty much spoiled everything

Isn’t this holiday supposed to be for kids? Somehow, in our lifetime, parents have taken over and pretty much spoiled everything. (Shutterstock)

For nine years, my wife and I lived in the city, down a long lane, next to the Quaker meeting I pastored. Our first Halloween, we loaded up on candy, anticipating a horde of pirates, ghosts, and witches. But the lane was dark and spooky and not one kid showed up, so for the next month, we ate mini Snickers for dessert at every meal, even breakfast. Then we moved to a small town, and carloads of urchins mobbed our home at Halloween, swarming our front door like rats on raw meat. After the first hour, we were out of candy and began emptying our cupboard to beat back the mob, doling out squares of baking chocolate, sugar cubes, packets of Sweet’N Low. When we ran out of treats, they began TP’ing our trees, soaping our windows, and igniting paper sacks of manure on our porch. It was wonderfully nostalgic, reminding me of my childhood, and I went to bed happy.

We made the mistake of leaving our pumpkin outside, and woke the next morning to find it splattered on the street in front of our house.

“And they say the youth of today have no gumption!” I said to my wife, thrilled to be living in a town whose youth weren’t adverse to labor. If you’ve ever hefted a pumpkin over your head to smash it, you’ll know it’s no easy task.

It wasn’t as if I were out any money. I got the pumpkin free at the hardware store in our town. If you wait until Halloween to get your pumpkin, as I do, the hardware man will pay you to take it off his hands. Nor did I invest much time carving the pumpkin. Triangle eyes, a square nose, and a gap-toothed smile. I’ve carved every pumpkin the exact same way since I was 6 years old and my parents first entrusted me with a knife.

I remember that day well, because I still have the scar. While blood was spurting in a high arc from my forearm, my father said, “Yep, that’s a cut all right. Looks like you hit an artery.” My father exposed me to danger early and often so the lessons would stick. Sever an artery once, and you’ll think twice before doing it again, I guarantee it.

But things changed on the Halloween front. Parents horned in on what had been a kid’s affair. Children were no longer turned loose to find their own costumes, there was no more rifling through the attic for hobo clothes. Costume stores began sprouting up, and parents shelled out 50 bucks for their kid to be a ninja, a Spiderman, or a ballerina. Costumes became the measure of parental worth.

Around the same time as the outbreak of costume stores, someone discovered there was money to be made selling pumpkin-carving kits. There were no kits in my day, by cracky. A steak knife from the silverware drawer sufficed. Gone were the pumpkins with perfectly good triangle eyes and noses and gap-toothed smiles. Then someone, Martha Stewart, I think, wrote a magazine article about decorating with pumpkins, and, before long, pumpkins were sculpted by adults, not carved by kids. That was when Halloween began floating belly-up in the holiday fishbowl. Martha Stewart was sent to jail, but for entirely the wrong reason.

Now, God help us, parents are accompanying their children door to door. I would have sooner stayed home than had my parents tag along the night of Halloween. What is a boy to do when, in the presence of his parents, he must administer a well-deserved trick to the grouch down the street? His hand dips furtively into the folds of the costume to withdraw a bar of soap, only to have his father, who has forgotten the pure joy of delinquency, give him the stink eye. What have we become?

Certain pastors I know get all worked up about Christmas losing its meaning. This pastor is fine with Christmas. I want to return Halloween to its former glory. So I’m starting a movement to reclaim Halloween. First, no more adults poking their noses in where they don’t belong. If a kid wants to go trick-or-treating, the kid will have to come up with the costume, not the parent. No more store-bought costumes. It will be against the law. Second, every fourth house will have to hand out popcorn balls. There is no candy bar in the world that compares with a popcorn ball, but no one hands them out anymore. My movement will promise a popcorn ball in every Halloween bag.

If this sounds good to you, I urge you to write in my name during the next presidential election so I can get these, and other, crucial problems solved.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/10/22/humor/lighter-side/taking-back-halloween.html/feed0Flying High: FAQs for Air Travelershttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/06/20/humor/flying-high-faqs-for-air-travelers.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/06/20/humor/flying-high-faqs-for-air-travelers.html#commentsFri, 20 Jun 2014 13:00:55 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=99718Humorist Dave Barry's take on what to expect when flying "the friendly skies."

So you’re planning to take an airplane trip. Good for you! Every year, millions of people “take to the skies” for business or pleasure, and statistically only a small percentage of them are killed.

Nevertheless, if this is your first flight, or you haven’t flown in a while, or you’re simply one of the many stupid people found in airports, you’re probably unsure about what to expect. So let’s review the basics:

Q: I have an infant or small child. Are there any special preparations I should make for flying?A: Definitely. Before you leave home, gather together whatever toys, books, or games you will need to keep your child occupied. Then remain home, occupying your child, until he or she is a minimum of 16 years old.Q: When should I leave for the airport?A: You should already be at the airport.Q: Should I check my luggage?A: That depends on several factors, the main one being: Do you ever want to see your luggage again?Q: What are the “do’s” and “don’ts” of airport security screening?A: We’ll start with a “do”: Relax! Airport security is handled by the Transportation Security Administration, which is an agency of the federal government (Motto: “A Gigantic Bureaucracy Working for You”). Some TSA procedures may seem ridiculous, but remember this: There are real terrorists out there, and it’s the TSA’s job to make sure that these terrorists do not get on an airplane until they have fully complied with TSA procedures.

Make sure your carry-on luggage does not contain any prohibited items, including liquids, gels, gases, or solids. If you plan to wear underwear, wear it on the outside of your other garments so that it is clearly visible to the TSA agents. The heart of the screening procedure is when you go into the “scanner,” which sounds scary, although, in fact, it’s nothing more than a giant microwave oven that bombards your body with atomic radiation.

But there’s no need to worry: The scanner is completely safe for humans as long as (a) you do not remain in there longer than the recommended eight-tenths of a second and (b) TSA agents have remembered to change the power setting from POPCORN back to HUMANS after their break. The scanner serves a vital security function: It “sees” through your clothing and captures an image of your naked body, which is transmitted to a room where specially trained TSA agents decide whether to post it on Facebook. If you would prefer not to have this happen, simply ask to have an agent grope your genitals manually. It’s your right!

The main “don’t” of airport security is: Don’t make inappropriate jokes. TSA agents are responsible for your safety, so they must take every possible threat seriously; if you engage in inappropriate humor, they have no choice but to shoot you.

Q: How do I know which seat on the airplane is mine?A: It will be the one directly in front of the screaming infant.Q: When the flight attendant announces for the third time that all cell phones must be turned off immediately or the plane cannot leave the gate, does that mean I should turn my cell phone off?A: That announcement does not apply to you.Q: I’m a little nervous about flying. Is this normal?A: Absolutely! Believe it or not, even many airline crew members admit that flying gives them the “jitters.”Q: How do they handle it?A: They smoke crack.Q: What if something goes wrong with the airplane while it’s flying?A: There’s nothing to worry about! The pilot will simply land the plane on the Hudson River, where it will float until rescue boats arrive.Q: What if we’re not flying over the Hudson River?A: Then you will die. Basically, you should restrict your air travel to flights between New York and Albany.Q: But I don’t want to go to Albany.A: Good, because that flight has been canceled.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/06/20/humor/flying-high-faqs-for-air-travelers.html/feed0Another Level: How Candy Crush nearly crushed my soulhttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/04/18/humor/another-level-how-candy-crush-nearly-crushed-my-soul.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/04/18/humor/another-level-how-candy-crush-nearly-crushed-my-soul.html#commentsFri, 18 Apr 2014 13:00:55 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=98655I’m on a binge this week. I see colored dots even when I’m not playing. At the beginning of each game, I say, "This is the last."

My husband is curled over something held low in his lap. He doesn’t answer.

“OK then,” I say. “Let me try for awhile.”

“No. I thought you quit.”

“Just one time. Just a little bit. Then I’ll be done.”

He ignores me, his eyes fixed, glazed, a zoned-out slackness to his mouth. I’m momentarily piqued, but then feel a flash of relief. I’ve dodged a bullet. If I relapse, there’s no knowing how far it’ll go.

At first, it’s simple: Line up three of a kind and they drop.

Get four in a row and they turn into a super one; the same thing happens if you make a T or a letter L–a different kind of super one.

Knock two super ones together, they throb and explode in a torrent of colors, sending little jelly-like fish swimming around the screen.

“It’s free” is the come on, but you can pay to get “boosters,” little cheats to help you win–a hammer, a hand, a giant bam-bam lollipop.

I swore I’d never pay to play. Except maybe just for this level, the one that’s impossible.

I’m on a binge this week. I have a crick in my shoulder, a pain in my neck. I see colored dots even when I’m not playing.

At the beginning of each game, I say, This is the last. See, I’m actually not the kind of person who plays video games.

Then I hit “play again.”

“Come to bed,” my husband says. I settle in next to his warm furry nakedness, then grab my phone for just one more round. He groans and turns over.

I dream of lining things up, having them drop.

In the morning, I play just one game. Hair of the dog and all.

I wait while it loads; anticipation builds. Like making the preparations for drug use, the rolling or grinding or measuring, or whatever.
The relief when the board’s set up. Happy colors, happy music. My path set out for me. I can do this!

I start slow–most of the levels aren’t timed. I’ll play it smart this time, try and line up my moves, don’t go for the easy three, the pulsing ones the game prompts me with if I seem to deliberate too long.

My unfinished novel pants at my feet like an annoying dog; I pointedly ignore it and start another level.

Line up, slide down. Line up, line up, slide down.

Nasty game this time. A couple more tries. Then, good round! Almost cleared the board. Try again.

Be careful, too many random choices and you can lose your life.

All the time, the game is nudging–give your friends lives! Invite your friends! Ask your friends to unlock levels! Share your wins!

Give a life to a friend. See, I’m magnanimous. Or, then I feel guilty, like a dealer, roping them in.

Accept a life from a friend. I’m popular–someone likes me!

I play day and night. I have to beat one level before doing any other task–one level stretching to several. I start to get antsy hanging out with friends, anxious for them to leave so I can go and play.

Ashamed, I hide my phone from prying eyes, toggle off the screen when someone comes in the room. I hope it saved; I was doing well.

Finally, I screw up my resolve and remove the app entirely.

Actually, semi-finally–the next morning, I put it back on and play again. Amazingly, I easily pass the level on which I’d spent the whole previous day. See, it knows when you’re leaving and acts sweet, like an abusive boyfriend. It wants you dependent and passive. It acts indifferent, but wants you there.

It understands you. It wants you.

One day I quit, cold turkey. I post on Facebook, I’m done with the world’s most addictive game. Later, friends tell me they started playing because of my post, addictive being the highest recommendation.

]]>http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/04/18/humor/another-level-how-candy-crush-nearly-crushed-my-soul.html/feed0Fiddling With Timehttp://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/02/21/humor/fiddling-with-time.html
http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/2014/02/21/humor/fiddling-with-time.html#commentsFri, 21 Feb 2014 13:00:59 +0000http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/?p=97349In the March/April issue, humorist Phil Gulley writes: "Daylight savings is a fine thing, but how about adding more hours to the day?"

“It’s rumored Arizona rejected daylight saving time because its senate majority leader in 1967 owned a chain of drive-in theaters, though I’m sure that had nothing to do with his decision.”

In 2006, the governor of Indiana, Mitch Daniels, switched our state to daylight saving time, which caused everyone to faint dead away. More than a few Hoosiers predicted the end of the world, which hasn’t happened yet, but we are patient, so we are willing to wait.

Spring forward, fall back. We’ll move our clocks an hour forward on March 9 at 2a.m., though I will probably hurry things along and move our clocks forward just before I go to bed. This is no small undertaking. We have 13 house clocks, four car clocks, four wristwatches, a stove clock, a microwave clock, a garage clock, and a clock on my motorcycle. Since I only change my car clocks twice a year, I have to look up how to do it each time. Daniels is no longer governor, so he presumably has to change his own clocks now that he doesn’t have a butler to do it for him. I find it deeply satisfying when politicians have to live under the same burdens they place on us. I bet two days a year, Daniels rues the day he fiddled with our time.

Despite my twice-yearly struggle, I’ve become a fan of daylight saving time. In the fall I get an hour’s extra sleep the day we change clocks, and then there is a stretch of summer days when the sun doesn’t set until well after 9p.m. The parents of small children hate daylight saving time because it’s impossible to get a kid to bed when it’s still light outside, and then they’re up at midnight when the sun rises. The owners of drive-in theaters don’t like it either. By the time it’s dark enough to show the movies, most people are in bed. It’s rumored Arizona rejected daylight saving time because its senate majority leader in 1967 owned a chain of drive-in theaters, though I’m sure that had nothing to do with his decision.

Since I’m a fan of daylight saving time, I was surprised when it repaid my appreciation by giving me cancer. Basal cell carcinoma, to be precise, which is caused by too much sun. It doesn’t take a genius to see the connection. For 45 years, I breezed along, healthy as a horse, never sick a day in my life, but then we went on daylight saving time and the next thing you know I had to have a chunk of my right ear lopped off. At this rate, I won’t have any body parts left by the time I’m 60.

No matter the sleight-of-hand we perform with clocks, we’ve been unable to achieve the one thing most of us want, which is more time. When you think how long the 24-hour day has gone without a promotion, it doesn’t seem unreasonable to bump it up to 26 hours. In fact, it’s way overdue. That would give us one extra month a year. I would like my extra month in the summer, please, right between June and July.

Keeping alive the tradition of naming months after gods, emperors, and obscure foreign words, I would name the extra month Philip, which in Greek means “lover of horses.” Horses have done a lot for us, and it’s time we named a month after them. It just occurred to me that is my name, but I assure you that had nothing to do with my choice.

New York City adopted daylight saving time in 1918, 88 years before Indiana. Why is it things always start on the coasts and take forever to reach the Midwest? Electrical power began in New York in 1892. Not even our storms had electricity then. It was the same thing with hot dogs. People in New York City were enjoying them in the 1870s, but I didn’t even get to taste one until the 1960s.

They now make household clocks that are linked to the cesium fountain clock at the National Institute of Standards and Technology facility in Boulder, Colorado. The clocks automatically adjust to daylight saving time. The cesium fountain clock measures time by the vibration of a cesium atom and is accurate to one second every 100 million years. We don’t even have atoms in Indiana, but when we finally get them, I’m going to buy a clock I won’t have to adjust twice a year.